Break From The Hurd

Just ran across one of those news items that makes those of us who are old-fashioned wonder if everything we were taught about sports and discipline and how it molds what’s right and wrong occurred on some far off planet our parents must’ve made us visit when we were kids.

Or, to put it another way, a whole half-game suspension for Florida linebacker Brandon Spikes??!!

Wow, that’ll teach him.

You may have seen the highlights of Spikes trying to gouge out the eyes of Georgia running back Washaun Ealey on Saturday. This is one of those things on the football field, apparently, that is as much a breach of conduct as a major-league hitter laughing at a pitcher after a home run.

Anyway, coach Urban Meyer, after initially wanting to “just move on,” suspended Spikes after watching a replay of the play. Now here’s my question for Meyer? What do you expect Spikes to learn from this? More important, what do you expect Spikes’ teammates to learn.

Here’s what I’m guessing Spikes will learn: Keep your hands outside the face mask at all times. Oh, and I’m a star, so even if I mess up, I’ll get leniency, because of who I am.

Here’s what his teammates will learn: Coach’s punishments are light. We can get away with ...

Once upon a time, star athletes would occasionally have to pay a severe punishment as an example to others as to what not to do.

Missing half of a college football game doesn’t qualify. And if gouging out a guys eyes is “as bad as it gets” as I heard some talking head say today, what trangression would warrant losing an entire game.

Thanks Urban Meyer for reinforcing what we already know. Punishment, when a star is involved, often is in words only.

Here’s how the bad start to a day turns good: You find yourself, hours after oversleeping, jamming to the riffs of Van Halen’s debut album --- aptly named “Van Halen” — as your boys alternately take a swing at the baseball with their Wii remote controls and then turn those controls into makeshift guitars.

This was my Sunday afternoon, and I bring it up because it got me thinking about the way most of the folks I know spend non-summer Sundays in this country. It’s the same way most folks spend it, I imagine.

See if this scenario rings a bell: You find your favorite (name your favorite player/team) jersey, make sure your remote control is handy, load up on chips, maybe even add a six pack of your favorite cold beverage to the list, and you sit and watch football. All day.

Hey, good for you. I’ve got nothing against a Sunday afternoon spent watching guys oversized, overly fast men running around trying to kill each other. The NFL has become our national pastime, our non-church gathering if you will, and there’s a lot that’s good about that.

But what I find interesting is just how much fun we’re missing when we devote one entire day on a weekend devoted entirely to football. This may be a West Coast thing, because games start so early (10 a.m.) and run all afternoon. But even in the East, where games start at 1 p.m., you wonder if our obsession with the NFL has obscured our need to use one of our free days per week to bond with folks.

Like family, for instance.

This may not apply to you. Perhaps your family is one that bonds through a devotion to their favorite team. That said, there is so much more that fathers, mothers and children could be doing on a Sunday afternoon besides watching football. Maybe a walk in the park.

Maybe a drive somewhere. Maybe some quality time with our children rocking out to our favorite rock album as a kid.

Now, I realize skipping a Sunday of football might be an easier thing for me. The Raiders and the 49ers have been embarrassing themselves for several years now, so when those of us out here decide to do something else, we're often not missing much.

The point is, it might be worth your time one or two Sunday’s a year to turn the game off. Amazing how many children you see outside playing on a Sunday. Once in a while, perhaps we ought to turn the game off and join them.

I've never really understood the popularity of golf. Both watching it or playing it. Still don't.

I say this because the Presidents Cup is in San Francisco this week, so every media professional I know is drooling like a bulldog. Friends are dipping into the college funds to get tickets. And golf pros are, well, being golf pros.

My friend Buzz relayed a story about an incident during a practice round. One golfer, Geoff Ogilvy, a former U.S. Open champ (who knew?), who was about to hit a 6-foot putt. He went through his routine, lined it up, etc., when off went a cell phone. Ogilvy fired the evil eye. He lined it the putt again. Again the cell phone went off. Three times this happened.

Ogilvy, apparently, was ready to sentence the offender to death, if you were to judge by his eyes.

Turned out, an elderly marshal couldn't figure out how to turn off his phone.

Which brings me back to the original point. I just don't get the allure. A baseball player has to hit a ball that's moving upwards of 90 mph with 55,000 people screaming, and a golfer can't handle a little bit of noise?

Here is a sport that flaunts wealth, is a status symbol for class fragmentation and is all about the individual (90 percent of the time anyway). And even when a Presidents Cup or something of that ilk is held, the event is still a massive stage for jackass behavior.

As far as playing the game, just watch Robin Williams in his "Live on Broadway" show (see below) from a few years ago. Tells you everything you need to know.

Funny thing, my oldest son, Clayton, is totally into golf, so I won't be able to ignore it forever. If you can please tell me the allure, I'm open for suggestions. But frankly, I'd really rather he prefer to fly a kite.

As the sports world reacts to the two-year sentence given former Giants wide receiver Plaxico Burress on Tuesday, a question for all of you to contemplate:

What would’ve become of your life had you $2.1 million in your pocket --- GUAR-ON-TEED!! --- at age 16?

Excuse me while I think about my own life and shudder!

This, boys and girls, is our question today, because just as a Super Bowl hero with a daughter and family couldn’t handle his fame and fortune, neither, too, could a poor kid from the Dominican Republic who never really did a thing to earn it.

This Giant goes by the name Angel Villalona, and if you haven’t heard of him, don’t worry, you will. Villalona could turn out to be the first notable athlete in this sports-meets-entertainment-equals-unfettered-mess era to go down as a murderer. Even if he’s not convicted of the charges he faces in the death of 25-year-old Mario Felix de Jesus Velete, Villalona has shown himself incapable of making smart decisions.

And just to review: When a professional sports team is paying an athlete $2.1 million before he takes a step on a professional field, it's the athlete's responsibility to be smart and to be safe. If only teams gave money out based on clued-in vs. clue-less.

Then again, what should we expect?

When I was 16, I was ready to fly the nest, my parents knew nothing, I had all the skills necessary to navigate life and I made only wise decisions. I never drove fast, never did reckless things, never thought about what I said or to whom I said it and always assumed the sun would shine on my you-know-where the next day.

Guess I’m funny that way.

OK, back to reality. I think we’d all agree --- at least those of us who have lived a little --- that none of us really knows anything at 16, much less when were sidled with the responsibility that comes with $2.1 million. And especially were we sidled with the responsibility that comes with trying to lift an entire family out of the poverty in the Dominican Republic and other downtrodden environments from which more and more athletes come?

Don’t get me wrong. Some of us do understand by then that the world is not about us. Some of us would realize by then just what would come with gifts such as the ones Villalona possesses.

But most of us come into the world saying, “Mine, mine, mine,” and have not, by 16 figured out that life was not intended to be lived that way. With that selfishness comes a gigantic stage for doing some really dumb, life-ruining things.

Which is why the arrest of Villalona and the punishment of Burress really don’t have to be viewed as a “sad day,” as the football Giants termed it, but rather as a hopeful one. Burress represents a cautionary tale that star athletes really can go to jail, and Villalona is the living example of why nobody should get millions until they’ve “earned” their millions.

Too bad we’ve forgotten that somewhere along the way. Otherwise, Burress and Villalona probably would have much brighter futures.

Nice to see that while I was buried in the boxes of a move, a few things occurred last week that provided faith that perhaps the apocalypse might not be on us. The one that stood out to me:

The acquittal in Louisville, Ky., of high school football coach David Jason Stinson, who had been charged in connection with the death of 15-year-old Max Gilpin from heat stroke in 2008.

We live in a world where high school coaches face more parent interference and less support from their school districts than ever before. To send a message that they can be sued for tragedies that occur in a game or in practice would only add more fuel to the arguments that we're too litigious a people already. Nice to know that some tragedies remain only that ---- tragedies with no explanation and no adequate way to fill in the void created by the pain of them. Much sympathy to Gilpin's family, whose pain must be more than I can imagine, but suing somebody isn't going to make it go away.

Having said that, can we all agree that kids who need an extra drink of water during a hot practice aren't weak? Bodies cry out for what they need. I've never quite seen the benefit of having that body pushed to the edge of collapse. If coaches do practice what they preach, they'll take this lesson and apply it going forward.

By the way, the high school kids in the school district where I live have had to pay $400 to pay football this fall. Yeah, nothing about the way our country and states (in this case, California) do things needs to be changed.

Every so often, my almost-7-year-old son, Clayton, says or does something that makes me wonder whether he, indeed, has part of my gene pool. Example: He showed up for a recent overnight visit wearing a New York Yankees hat.

Seriously made me wonder whether the kid should remain in the will, lol.

Now you gotta understand, my mother and her side of the family all hail from a small town in Connecticut that's the halfway point where Yankee and Red Sox nations collide. So I've spent a lifetime listening to the obnoxiousness that results in rooting for the Microsoft's of the world. I choose not to partake.

If I had my druthers, I'd rather my children not drink the juice (no pun intended), either. So I asked this child of mine, "Clayton, how can you possibly root for the Yankees."

He says, "I like Derek Jeter."

Kid's pretty smart for 6. Tonight or sometime this weekend, Jeter will become the most prolific hitter in Yankees history, and there's no player I'd rather have my son emulate.

I was blessed enough to cover baseball during the Great Shortstop Debate earlier this decade. And I remember specifically a conversation I had while watching Miguel Tejada wreak havoc on the Bombers at the old Yankee Stadium while a member of the A's. And I remember specifically telling my uncle that Jeter was the least effective shortstop from a group that included Tejada, A-Rod and Nomar Garciaparra.

"You'll see who the last one standing is," he said.

Boy, I wish he had been wrong. But what fueled my uncle's argument, and he was dead right, was that Jeter "does it the right way," and that "those guys outlast the others."

Let's see. Jeter has never been arrested. Never had shady pics show up on the Internet. Never has incurred the wrath of his peers.

I interviewed Jeter on a couple of occasions, but only once in one-on-one. It was amazing how he steered every question about his own individual accomplishments into a topic about the greater good --- namely, winning games and winning championships. Jeter already has won four of them, and No. 5 is there for the taking in October.

Now, almost every player will say that it's all about the winning. But in reality, only a handful really mean it. If in actuality, Jeter is one of those, then he not only is the greatest shortstop in Yankees history, he's the greatest actor in the history of American theatre.

I choose to believe that he is, quite simply, the antithesis of the modern athlete, someone who's old school in motivation and actions. There's a reason he's the heart and soul of America's most famous franchise, and thank goodness he measures up to the expectation in every way.

So it is that Clayton is off to a great start in making sound judgements. His Yankees hat? Hanging nicely on the door.

Amazing! On Monday evening, almost four full days removed from the ugliness that ensued on the famous blue-turf field in Boise, Idaho, highlight clips showing the LeGarrette Blount melee were still being shown, and it got me thinking.

At what point will one athlete attempt to kill another one?

Go ahead, call me an alarmist. Nothing I haven't heard before. Besides, I'd be thrilled to look back at this post in a decade and say, "Guilty." In fact, when I mentioned to a few co-workers that not only would such a scenario not surprise me but that we're a helluva lot closer to it than we think, I got that look that says, "How many times were you dropped on your head as a child?"

But having said that, I imagine I would've had the same reaction had I said, not all that long ago, "School shootings will become a regular enough occurrence that they won't shock us."

Anyway, it just seems to me that there is a certain inevitability to the increasing lack of sportmanship we're seeing at every level of sports. Maybe I'm an alarmist, but I also know we live in a society that's among the most violent in a world that has become more and more impersonal with each new "phone" a computer company puts on the market.

Combine that dynamic with a media that markets to the individual more and more, and it's not beyond the realm of craziness to think an athlete will come along who's just narcissistic enough to pack heat to use at a time when things get heated.

I've had the pleasure of meeting more than one sports psychologist during my career, and let's just say it's an idea that's not unique to me. Gun play is a daily occurrence in rough neighborhoods throughout this land of ours, a sad reality that has created generations of youngsters who have become desensitized to the gruesome nature of it. Those who escape it, particularly the athletes, often do so through luck or because of protection provided by those who are wielding the guns in the first place.

But imagine if those voices who have served to protect the athlete suddenly get in his ear with intentions that aren't so pleasant?

Ludicrous? Perhaps. But no more so than the notion that a postgame handshake between college students would set off a free-for-all. Or that the NBA would witness a brawl spill over into its seats, as it did when members of the Indiana Pacers and Detroit Pistons had their throwdown at The Palace in 2005.

Imagine the next one, and then consider the world in which we live. All it takes is one idiot with a lot of athletic ability.

So call me crazy. But given where we've been and where we seem to be headed, I've got an awful feeling I may someday say, "Told you so."

Tell me if this ever happens to you. I spend a morning listening to sports talk, an afternoon watching SportsCenter and a night watching some television --- all while mixing the purity, joy, frustration and downright exhaustion of parenthood --- and I come away wondering if Sports Illustrated was on to something when they started looking for signs of the apocalypse.

Or, to put it another way, sometimes, I just don't get it.

Examples:

--- Spent two hours watching a VH1 special on the Beatles Anthology (Part II) listening to John, Paul, George and Ringo reflect on messages of love, peace, God, enlightenment, etc., and was left with the overwhelming confirmation that good works come from caring about others. The special was followed by ... "The T.O. Show". Anybody else see the disconnect?

--- Meantime, T.O.'s former teammate, Pacman Jones will not be playing in the Canadian Football League after all. I covered hockey for two years and got exposed to the Canadian culture, and always came away feeling like those people had their heads together in a way that we in the U.S. don't. Intuition confirmed.

--- Makes me wonder what the Great White North would make of Michigan football coach Rich Rodriguez". The man has had a shady beginning with the Wolverines, left West Virginia under bad terms and during his Clemson days was apparently associated with a guy who's now a banned Clemson booster and accused felon. Institutional due diligence apparently doesn't mean what it once did.

--- Speaking of which, late Michigan legend Bo Schembechler was tight for years with former Ohio State coach Woody Hayes. My former father-in-law knew Woody well from his days at Dennison University in Ohio, and as bad a rap as Hayes gets, know this: He and Bo kept tabs on every one of their former players after they left school. Think Rich Rodriguez does that?

--- Talked to Indiana hoops legend Steve Alford on a flight one time, and he intimated the same thing about Bob Knight.

--- I'm not saying Woody, Bob and Bo were perfect. I'm just saying they must've been doing something right.

--- Put it another way, none of them would've put up with T.O., no matter how good he was.

--- Would love to hear what Curt Schilling has to say about this topic. Guy has expressed interest in taking over the seat created by the death of Ted Kennedy. Not sure if that's one of the more hopeful things I've heard or one of the scariest.

BarryZito: Thinking Twittering is for twits!

Before I begin, a disclaimer: The above is NOT a Twitter post by the Giants' $126 million man. The 2002 Cy Young Award winner quit using tweets to toot his totally tubular totality a while ago (and Barry, from all of us who still consider the written word something of importance, thanks). But I gotta believe that if he were still using this 21st century mode of public communication, the above wouldn't be a bad place to start.

Hell, if I were Barry Zito, that's what I'd be posting.

Nothing against the fine folks at Twitter. The company has opened the door to new and entertaining ways for professional athletes to embarrass themselves, and anything that can make arrogant millionaires look silly can't be all bad. But I'm from a school of increasingly vocal folks who a) don't have a need to know what a famous human is thinking at all times and b) shake our heads at the ego-driven thought process it takes to think that we would.

But if I were Zito, I'd look at the back of my baseball card --- or click on my baseball-reference.com splits --- and notice that since I eliminated the whole Twittering thing, my baseball life has gotten a whole lot better.

The San Jose Mercury News reported July 24 that Zito had decided to close his Twitter account around the All-Star break because, as he told the paper, "I thought it'd be better to use (the field) as my outlet." Now, what stopping Twitter has to do with rediscovering long-missing "stuff" we'll never know, but you can't argue with results. Since the All-Star break, Zito has gone 4-2, lowered his ERA from 5.01 to 3.94 by allowing 12 earned runs in 56 1-3 innings and lowered his WHIP to 1.30, the lowest it's been all season.

On Saturday night, Zito dazzled the Colorado Rockies in a 5-3 win night that helped the Giants' plight in the National League wild-card race, finishing two outs shy of a shutout.

Zito hasn't been this filthy for this long a stretch since pay phones were prevalent.

Now, putting a halt on Twitter may have nothing to do with any of this. But if it starts a trend away from the increasingly impersonal way in which we communicate and gets athletes thinking that not all of us are pining for their next great revelation, then give Zito another $126 mil.

It's worth noting, by the way, that one of Zito's best friends on the Giants is closer Brian Wilson, he of the Twitter-gone-bad club. Wilson tweeted earlier this season that he'd been out late when, in actuality (he said), he was in his hotel room. The whole thing caused a mild ruckus, and Wilson closed his account shortly afterward.

Wilson, incidentally, is third in the NL in saves.

So let this be an educational opportunity for you Antonio Cromartie, before you go ripping the San Diego Chargers' food again. And you, Mario Henderson, the Raiders offensive tackle who deftly tweeted that on the first day off his diet, "my stomach hurts cuz I ate too much burgerking." (That's the Raiders in a nutshell, but I digress).

In short, the world may be Twittering its tail off, but there is a place for those who want to stay silent, and it seems to bring with it some pretty good karma. Zeet down on the Tweet. Has a nice ring to it.

My heart's a little heavy this morning. I've been in a nostalgic mode all week, anyway, pondering the whole should-Pete Rose-be-forgiven thing, and now we've lost the Kennedy patriarch.

Not that I'm gonna go on a political slant, but the death of Ted Kennedy is a monumental event in our country, even if not everybody realizes it, and it got me thinking. Imagine what the man must've carried?

Wonder if it was as burdensome as the baggage Pete totes?

OK, so maybe Pete Rose and Ted Kennedy have never been objects of comparison, but they don't call this thing "Break from the Hurd" for nothing. And to me, their stories are a bit similar in that they stir the debate about when punishment should end and where forgiveness starts.

Take the Senator. Forty years ago last month, Kennedy drove a car off a bridge, and the passenger in his car, 28-year-old Mary Jo Kopechne, drowned. That would seem to be a far worse transgression than what the all-time hits leader was punished for 20 years ago this month --- gambling on his team to win a few games.

The difference, of course, is in the respective aftermaths. Kennedy spoke of the Chappaquiddick incident immediately, took responsibility for his actions (sort of), and had his most productive years in the Senate in the four decades that ensued. He was, in every sense of the word, redeemed.

Rose, on the other hand, remains a lonely, almost pathetic figure. He refused for almost 15 years to acknowledge he bet on baseball, and when he did finally admit it, he was about as eloquent as somebody with only a baseball education would be expected to be. But by acknowledging the truth, Rose did take responsibility (sort of) for what he did.

So because Ted Kennedy was born to America's royal family and had the advantages inherent in such a thing, he gained some eloquence and was allowed to continue his life's work? And because Pete was born to a blue-collar family and knew only the code of the clubhouse, he's not?

Not sure how I feel about this.

On one hand, I'm from the old school that says sometimes it's important and purposeful to use someone as an example. My generation grew up hearing cautionary tales about Shoeless Joe Jackson. My son's generation will hear the stories of Pete Rose.

That's important. Sports is a metaphor for what happens in life, and some mistakes can't be undone.

Take my own example. I torpedoed what was a pretty good life situation ---- marriage, two kids a dog, a beautiful home and wealth --- by making some awful choices. That will stay with me forever, as it should, and my kids should use it as an example of what not to do.

On the other, I feel safe saying that Pete and I aren't the only ones among us who have who have screwed up royally. And if my own experience has taught me anything, it's the importance of forgiveness to the healing of everybody concerned, and the miracle that is redemption.

Rose deserves it. Because no matter how ineloquent he's been in expressing his own humanly broken views, he has borne the burden of living with his actions for nearly one-third of his life, and no question it has probably changed him. He no doubt would welcome the chance to repair some of the damage he's caused to the game he loves probably more than all else, and who's to say that he might not do some wonderful things if given the chance?

All of which leads us back to the Senator, who certainly could devote a good portion of his memoirs to living with sadness. The man lost all three brothers, including two to assassanations, and all but one sister in his lifetime. He endured a plane crash that killed an aide. He has watched members of the Kennedy's next generation die.

Which is to say his heart carried heavy aches that would seem to make Rose's own albatrosses light by comparison. But at least he didn't bear his troubles alone.

Rose, however, continues to tote his troubles solo, and somehow, that just doesn't seem right.

Perhaps on this day of rememberance, it's worth reminding ourselves that we all deserve a second chance, no matter how awkwardly we might ask for one.

I'm guessing the Senator would have agreed.

I broke down recently and finally bought a digital camera. Used it recently, too. Took more than two dozen pictures on a recent vacation trip and came away feeling competent --- huge news in my world, really, because I get along with modern technology about as well as Pete Rose befriends the truth.

Besides, I missed the money shot, the one that would've captured a moment that's become as much a part of the American experience as road rage and school massacres.

"That kid has got a great arm," a Carolinian native said to me while my almost 7-year-old, Clayton unleashed cannon after cannon while throwing a baseball with me on the white sands at Carolina Beach, North Carolina. "You looking into a coach for him yet?"

Say cheese!

Now look, my intent here is not to embarrass the soul who mentioned this not-so-bright idea to me. To paraphrase one of my favorite people, he knows not what he speaks. And by point of fact, the kid does have a great arm. Through no reason other than some good genes on his grandfather's side of the family, Clayton Hurd throws the ball with an accuracy and velocity that's rare for kids his age (last week, he threw 31 mph at a Durham Bulls game; his 41-year-old ol' man, by comparison, lit up the gun at 32).

But a personal coach? Already? Before he's even lost an upper tooth?

Have we, as a society, really become that sick?

Gosh, I'd like to think not. Sports occupies a large part of my soul, and has since I was sharing a dugout bench with Vida Blue's son, Derrick, in tee-ball. I can honestly say that every impactful event in my life --- most of them good, a couple downright awful --- was shaped by the way sports taught me how to view the world.

To me, the sports stage is a place where a dignified, quiet black man could receive a standing ovation in the Deep South for breaking the record of a white man (thanks, Henry Aaron). It's not the place where a disgraceful, boastful man of any color goes through the motions to prep for his reality show on VH1 (no thanks, T.O.).

To me, a man who scores a touchdown and flips the ball quietly to the ref deserves far more aplomb than the one who yanks out his cell phone to tell everybody he just did his job.

And to me, individual glory is the last thing one should be seeking when he goes between the white lines, because as we all are taught (or should be) the first time we lace up the sneakers: Any individiual glory worth having will only be more satisfactory should it come as the by-product of what the team did. Read that in a book detailing John Wooden's achievements. I think I'll take that ol' man's wisdom over anything Shaq may want to impart.

Unfortunately, most of these thoughts probably make me an alien in the sports world. Sports is big corporate business, and the movers and shakers are younger and younger. That's not lost on me; in fact, I'm as guilty as anyone. I wrote this blog even as I glimpsed stories of the Little League World Series and eyed a Sports Illustrated cover with 16-year-old prodigy Bryce Harper featured on the cover.

But just because things are a certain way doesn't mean that's the way they ought to be. Ask Josh Hamilton if all that hype surrounding his talent as an 18-year-old was healthy. Ask Jennifer Capriati. Wait a few more years, then ask Freddy Adu.

All of which is to say, no, my son does not have a personal coach. Not yet. Kid's got quite a few more years to decide if he wants one. In the meantime, I'm gonna encourage him to pursue all his other hobbies. He loves photography. Perhaps he can show me a thing or two.

Time was, I loved pretty much everything about Brett Favre.

I loved that he played with the enthusiasm of an 8-year-old just turned loose at a carnival. I loved that he ripped off his helmet in a Super Bowl. I loved that the city (Green Bay) and team (Packers) for which he played gave me an alternative to the now-too-embarrassing-for-words Raiders squad that I'd followed since childhood.

Now? In the aftermath of the two-year, $25 million contract he's signed with the Minnesota Vikings to be their starting quarterback sans any real preparation?

The love is gone.

Initially, this was going to be a get-to-know-me blog. As my first entry, I wanted to fill you in on some of the things that you can't find on the back of a baseball card. In the blogosphere, it seems, the life of the blogger is just as (if not more so sometimes) important as what it is he or she is blogging about.

Therefore, you would've found out quite a bit about how I spent many a summer in baseball clubhouses and a good portion of my career chronicling the feats of baseball's home run champ. Spend time doing that, and you can spot arrogance as easily as Favre once found open receivers.

And let me tell you, here are six words I never thought I'd write: Brett Favre has become Barry Bonds.

OK, perhaps not in the way you might think. Favre, to judge by his press conference, is still courteous and polite (Bonds rarely was) and he still seems to care an awful lot about what people think (Bonds never did).

That said, only a man with an ego the size of The Home Run King* could think that waltzing into training camp late to become the main man on a squad that entertains Super Bowl hopes would go over smoothly.

Truth of the matter, Favre just gave his new Vikings teammates a lesson in how to be Bonds without actually being him.

Abide by your own set of rules (check). Tick off guys who are fighting the same struggle you are (check). Be completely clueless about it (check).

It's been more than a decade since I've covered an NFL training camp or any other football for that matter. But I've been around it at all levels during my life to realize that the early days in heat are as close to emulating combat conditions as you can get in our civilized life. The bonding that goes on is essential to the life of any successful team, and the really great ones form a unity that's hard to describe. Much of this is built when it's 110 degrees, and the body is being pushed in ways it never could have imagined.

Favre simply wants to skip that part of it (most of it anyway), and thanks to the enablers that are professional sports executives, he will.

Tell you this: If I'm any other Viking, I'm annoyed if not angry. If I'm Sage Rosenfels or Tavaris Jackson, Minnesota's other two quarterbacks, I'm thinking about tweaking Favre's bad right shoulder when he's asleep. If I'm John Elway or Dan Marino, I'm wondering why my agent never got me this deal.

Anyway, Favre seems to think that this is much ado about nothing. He told a press gathering that "he'd like to think" that he's proven beyond a doubt that he's a "leader" and a "great teammate." If being a great teammate equates to being manipulative, putting one's self on a pedestal and giving plenty of unnamed teammates a reason to bitch (remember the Jets experience?), then he's succeeded.

But when it comes to inspiring love, Mr. Bonds may have a better shot these days.